This is just poetry. It won't save you, but it may locate you so that a rescue party can be sent out. — Dean Blehert

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Our Children

Almost five years we've been married,
but have no children. The oldest
of the children we haven't had
(a boy, I think) is nearly five,
a good kid, tough, bright, cute,
though already his tow-head darkens.
Whoever had him instead of us,
I'm sure he's loved and in good hands.
The other two (a girl and a boy,
I think) are also thriving. All feel
tucked in among the toys, easy chairs
and faces they have known forever.

Later, perhaps, each will wonder
if there is not a truer home
than they know, a presence calling
faintly in the hush of wind moving away
through tall grass on the hillside,
a sense of something just out of
reach...which may have nothing to do
with their being the children we never had

We, too, are doing very well:
My wife's smile never fails to charm me
and I always say the cutest things.

by Dean Blehert

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

The Makers

We are the makers.
When there is nothing left to say,
we make something to say.
When there is no language left
to say it in, we make a language.
When none will listen,
we make them listen.
When there is no one left to listen,
we make listeners.

by Dean Blehert

How to Cheat Nightmares

In my dream, I left the airplane,
toting two bags,
stopped in a restaurant
to talk to the woman who ran it
(and seemed to know me), then,
on the sidewalk, heading home,
noticed my bags had vanished, but,
knowing the ways of dream luggage,
was not upset:
"If I just keep walking
as if it were here, it will reappear."
And it did.

by Dean Blehert

Friday, June 18, 2010


The sun must imagine himself invisible,
because no matter how hard he shines,
no one ever looks right at him.

Though you never seem to see me,
I must be content if, in my light,
you can see one another.

by Dean Blehert

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Wrong signal

She gives me a friendly hug.
I give her a more-than-friendly hug.
She sheds me like a sweater in a warm room.

by Dean Blehert
(Posted by Pam Blehert -- this one made me laugh!)

Saturday, June 12, 2010


5 a.m. - quick! The cat is howling!
Tie Pam to the mast AND plug her ears,
lest she throttle the cat! Listen
to that deep-throated yowl. The cat
gives good tongue. She knows we are trying
to assimilate her into our dreams.
She WILL not be assimilated. We make her
a song. She wails louder. We make her
a siren. Louder. We make her...Oh,
what's the use, I am awake - but
I'll not give her satisfaction. I'll
lie here with my eyes closed. After all,
most people only pretend to be awake.
Call it waking. Call this sleeping.

by Dean blehert